Thanks for the wonderful reviews!
Another update. I tell you, if I thought that three was good for me, four chapters all coming out within a week is definitely a personal record. And on to the story!
The two skied to the bottom of the hill in complete silence. Both father and son had an extreme lack of happiness etched into his visage. They took off their skis when they reached the bottom and trudged wordlessly in the direction of their cabin. Jackson found it particularly difficult to walk in the large, impeding boots, which only served to frustrate him.
When they reached the cabin, Greg noticed with discernable satisfaction that cabins fourteen and sixteen appeared to be deserted. The occupants were most likely out hitting the slopes and actually having a good vacation. Perfect. No one would be around to hear anything if, by any chance, his son were to, say, start screaming. A positively wicked smile formed on Greg's face. Absolutely perfect. He opened and reached into one of his zippered pockets and produced the key to the house. He didn't notice that Jackson also had realized that the neighboring cabins were empty.
He opened the door and stood aside, holding his hand out to the door and leering at Jackson. After you, that smile said, I dare you. Jackson wasn't fazed; he walked through the door without a hint of the fearful cowardice to which his father had become accustomed. His father came in and slammed the door behind him.
"What's wrong with you, boy?" he asked in a sinisterly soft voice, "Why do you bring this upon yourself? There was no reason for you to shout at me," his voice was growing steadily louder, and his hands were working to undo his belt, "there was no reason for you to scoff at me, turn your back on me, and show me such utter disrespect!" he spat this last word out with vehemence.
No reason? No reason! A thousand different versions of rage flood into Jackson's mind, making his face hot, and bringing tears to his eyes. You only broke the only person in the world I care about's leg. You've only been beating on us since either of us can remember to get out some stupid rage that isn't our fault, but no! There's no reason to turn my back on you. How he wished that he could say those words. In fact he would have, but his throat had clenched shut in the onslaught of his anger, and he could only stand there, looking with putrid hatred at his father, tears slowly welling up until they oozed over the threshold and trickled down his face. His cold eyes (seeming bluer than ever now that the whites had turned red to contrast the irises) were simply drilling into his father's face. They were so much like Greg's.
"Are you going to cry now?" his father, having succeeded in undoing the buckle, yanked his belt from his waist and held it menacingly in one hand.
Jackson shook his head slowly.
"Aw… How courageous, but it's complete bull. The tears are running down your face as I speak," he taunted him, trying to get a response out of him, dig at a weak spot, do anything to lessen or even erase the intensity with which his son was looking at him. But Jackson only continued to glare at his father. "Not very talkative now, are you? Fine, I don't care," he gestured vaguely with his left hand toward the couch. "Lie down. Face down."
Jackson continued to stare defiantly at his father.
This did it. His father's rage snapped and he flung the buckle end of the belt at Jackson, lashing him straight across the face. Jackson hadn't been prepared for that; he gave a choked cry of pain, fell to the floor and held a hand to the fresh cut on his already red cheek. His father didn't waste a second and lunged forward at the boy, grabbing him by the hair, and yanking his head up so the boy would look him in the eye.
"I said get on the couch! Now do it!" he forced the boy to his feet and flung him by his head towards the couch.
Jackson stumbled forward quickly, desperately trying to regain some control of his movement but only ended up barking his shins on the tiny coffee table before landing headlong on the couch, ironically in the position his father had wanted him in.
He tried to get up, but his father was on top of him in no time, pushing his face deeper into the cushions while pulling his shirt up to his back. Jackson uttered a few muffled cries, and tried to unearth his head, lashing out with his arms. He could hardly breathe. Then he became aware of a sharp pain in the small of his back. It repeated itself over and over again. The pain was immense, and his entire body became rigid. He tried to keep himself from screaming; he knew that if he started, he likely wouldn't be able to stop. With each passing blow, the pressure on the back of his head seemed to grow. Time seemed immeasurable. Was it ever going to end?
His father was using the end with the buckle. He was beating on his boy mercilessly, engulfed by the rage that had plagued his family through him for so many years. To him it seemed like had only been beating him for a few seconds or so. To Jackson, it seemed like an eternity of blow after blinding blow. Tears were streaming out of his eyes and soaking into the suffocating cushion. Finally the frequency of the blows became lower and lower as either the rage became less immediate, his father got tired, or a combination of the two. Finally they stopped altogether and the pressure of his father's hand left his head. He pulled his head weakly up and rested on the uninjured right side of his face which faced him right into the back of the couch and away from his father. He gasped in a lungful of air and slowly let it out in a shaky, ragged exhale, silently groaning in agony as he did so.
Greg pulled Jackson's shirt down over the fresh, oozing welts on his back, causing a stinging pain. Jackson felt the cushions shift as the weight of his father left the couch. He could feel his father looming over him, looking down at him, trying to decide what to do next.
Never one for teaching lessons in punishment he simply went to the kitchenette and left his son alone and hurt on the couch. He took several more ragged breaths then pulled himself painfully to a sitting position and stopped to catch his breath again. He looked angrily at his father, whose back was toward him as the man washed his hands in the kitchenette's sink. 'I hate you,' he whispered soundlessly, shuddering with anger as more tears trickled down his streaked face, 'I hate you so much.'
I know, it got a little violent, but it's for things like that that I rated this T. Ya know, just to be safe. Review please:)